


Three Wishes

by mysticanni



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Awkwardness, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Loneliness, Miscarriage, Past Domestic Violence, Smile (Band) Era, Strangulation, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 10:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticanni/pseuds/mysticanni
Summary: Brian, Tim and Roger each make a wish on the day before Roger auditions for Smile.
Relationships: Brian May & Tim Staffell & Roger Taylor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: Smile Weekend





	Three Wishes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Smile Weekend. It doesn't really fit any of the prompts very well but I think 'Fate' is the closest so I'm posting it on Day Three.
> 
> I'm sorry because this is very sad (please read the tags) although it has a hopeful ending.

*Shooting Star* 

People made their own luck, of course, that was what Brian believed. You had to work hard and obey the rules and you would be rewarded.

So wishing on a star was silly.

And it was a meteor, of course. He was surprised he had seen it at all from the balcony of this flat in the centre of London. It must be an unusually smog-free night.

The silly voice in his head said that the fact he had seen the shooting star made it even more magical. Ridiculous, though. Wishing on a star was a stupid superstition. 

There was a little niggling voice at the back of his mind, though, wondering if some people worked hard and were then ignored in favour of pushier, possibly less talented people? There was a tiny part of his mind that asked if you obeyed all the rules, if you were good, did people take advantage of you; walk all over you?

Did some people have all the luck?

But if they did, Brian reasoned, they didn’t get it by wishing on stars.

Wishing on a star was silly.

Brian knew he was different. He tried so hard to fit in. He tried too hard, perhaps. Other people seemed to find it so easy to chat. Other people seemed to find it so easy to make new friends. Brian felt he had two social modes: awkward and spectacularly awkward.

He seemed to unwittingly do all the wrong things. Instead of putting people at their ease he made them uneasy. Instead of making people laugh he made them stare uncomprehendingly. Instead of making small talk he lectured people. That was why he was alone on the balcony rather than in the midst of the party that was proceeding merrily inside.

Numbers were easier than people. Stars, planets, meteors were much easier than people. Guitars, especially Red, were infinitely easier than people. Interacting with humans was extraordinarily difficult. 

There was no awkwardness when he was playing.

Any career would involve dealing with people. Tim and his friend Freddie talked so seductively about becoming rock stars. If Brian became a rock star he would only have to deal with Red. Well, he supposed there would be some people involved too, mainly his band-mates but Brian usually found that other musicians were the easiest humans to deal with, especially once they had heard him play the guitar.

Tim had approached him about starting a band together. They had advertised for a drummer on college notice-boards.

He could hear people singing happy birthday and thought he should re-join the party. 

Wishing on a star was silly.

Brian made a wish anyway. He wished that at their auditions for a drummer they would find the perfect person to become a star with.

*Candle*

‘Make a wish!’ someone called over the ragged chorus of ‘happy birthday to you’.

Tim laughed and leaned over the table, towards the lop-sided cake with its patchy pink and white icing and solitary flickering blue and white striped birthday candle stuck in the middle. He was too old to make a wish, of course. Birthday wishes were for little kids.

He didn’t know half the people here at his own birthday party. He had no idea who was responsible for the cake. It was home-made (at least he really hoped no one had paid for it) and he would have liked to have thanked the maker (despite the lop-sidedness and the poor attempt at icing).

Everyone had brought their own booze and in some cases other recreational drugs of their choice. Tim did not think anyone was entirely sober and he had certainly had his fair share of wine. However, he suddenly felt very sober indeed. 

He was at a crossroads, he thought. Freddie thought that he could succeed in the music industry with Brian. Freddie had made a compelling argument for this. The secret, he said, was in writing your own songs. It was, according to Freddie, the key to success. Freddie could be very convincing.

And Brian was an amazing guitarist. Although Freddie seemed to find Brian’s guitar playing of less interest than his song-writing, which fascinated Freddie. Tim thought Freddie was too shy to ask Brian questions about his creative process directly which was why he pestered Tim to ask things and ‘note the answers carefully, my dear!’

So, he could wish to be a rock star, Tim thought, if wishes were not childish nonsense.

One road led to stardom and the other to a career in art and design and Tim was enjoying his course. He was good at it. He especially liked making models.

He could wish for a lucrative career in art, he thought, if wishes weren’t superstitious nonsense.

They had advertised for a drummer and were holding auditions the next day. If no one turned up or if no one was good enough then the decision would be taken out of his hands.

Tim blew out the candle and wished for Fate to take its course. 

*Aladdin’s Lamp*

Roger found Kensington Market comforting. He came when he was feeling low. He spent a lot of time there.

It felt like a community, he thought. All the traders knew each other and looked out for one another.

When Roger had left Truro he had thought he couldn’t wait to leave that small town community behind, where everyone knew everyone else’s business.

He had never thought he might miss it. 

He had never considered the possibility of vast impersonal London being a little bit overwhelming.

Roger had never imagined feeling lonely, being a stranger.

He had not thought loneliness might lead to unwise choices. 

Some of the traders knew him, now, too. One of them called to him now. ‘Hey, Rog, come and see this! Come and make a wish! It’s an Aladdin’s lamp!’

Roger found his brightest smile and wandered over to a stall piled high with bric-a-brac. The stall holder who had called out to him was a plump motherly red-head called Iris. She was holding an old oil lamp in her hands. It was a dull gold colour and looked more like a squashed tea-pot with an elongated spout than any kind of lamp. It was, as Iris had pointed out, like the lamp depicted in Roger’s old, much loved, childhood story book telling the tale of Aladdin and his magical lamp which contained a wish-granting genie.

‘You look well today, Roggie,’ Iris said carefully. 

She meant, Roger knew, that he did not look visibly bruised or injured and perhaps less exhausted. Although he still felt exhausted. ‘I left him,’ he told her, ‘last week. It’s been scary but... It’s a better kind of scary, y’know?’ 

Iris set down the lamp and came out from behind the counter to pull Roger into a lavender scented hug. ‘Good for you, darling, I’m so pleased for you.’ She released him. ‘Well, now, you must wish upon the lamp, love.’ 

Roger felt a little wobbly from her kindness. Iris had always asked directly about any bruises she had seen (and she seemed to always see them no matter how carefully Roger had tried to cover them). ‘Did someone hit you, love?’ she would say.

The first time she had asked Roger had walked into a cupboard door. The next time he had slipped on a wet floor. He had been limping because he had fallen down stairs the time after that. ‘You’re a clumsy little soul,’ Iris had noted, ‘just like I used to be when my former husband used to show his affection using his fists.’ 

It had taken a further accidental elbow to the face, cracking his head off the underside of a table while picking something up and a scarf caught in a car door which explained the bruising on his throat before Roger asked why she had left. 

Iris had bought him a cup of tea and a sticky iced bun in the market cafe. ‘I loved him,’ she told Roger, ‘and he was always so apologetic. He was always so sorry he had hurt me. I thought it was my fault. If I had been a better wife: a better cook; cleaned more thoroughly; folded the laundry just how he liked it. ‘Is it too much to ask?’ is what he used to say. ‘It’s a simple enough request, Iris.’ I constantly disappointed him. He would be forced to hit me and then he would be so upset. I had upset him. I thought it was my fault and I loved him.’ 

Roger listened attentively, nibbling at his bun, elbows on the rickety table. ‘I didn’t notice at first how much he had isolated me,’ Iris continued, ‘I didn’t really have any family and I didn’t see how, by discouraging me from working and disapproving of my friends, not liking me going out without him, he gradually cut me off so I didn’t really have anyone to talk to apart from him.’

Iris sipped her tea. ‘I was lucky,’ she told Roger, ‘because a neighbour noticed. She asked about my injuries. ‘What have you done to your wrist, Iris?’ she’d ask, or, ‘How did you get that burn mark?’ And she began to say things like, ‘If I didn’t know any better then I’d think your husband had been hurting you.’ Then she would point out how terrible it was when someone’s partner hurt them.’

They sipped their tea in silence for a moment before Iris continued her story. ‘My breaking point came when I lost our baby. I didn’t know I was pregnant until I lost the baby. He had been punching me in the stomach. He always preferred it if the bruising was hidden.’ Iris looked at Roger across the little table. ‘I didn’t leave right away, even then,’ she said, reaching across the table and squeezing Roger’s hand. ‘If I had stayed I firmly believe I would be dead by now. It wasn’t an easy thing to do but I had to leave.’ 

Roger thought of that now as he picked up the lamp. It was cool to the touch and heavier than he had expected.

He hadn’t made the decision to leave until his vision had darkened as the tie had tightened around his neck. He had been able to hear the names he was being called (you little slut, you little whore) and had thought about how the television programmes were correct: your hearing was the last thing to go. He had been released, crumpling to the floor like discarded clothing, and felt a vicious kick to his stomach. Perhaps your hearing wasn’t the last thing to go after all. But then he had heard a snarl of ‘useless cunt’ before he passed out. 

Perhaps you had to reach a point where the fear of staying outweighed the fear of leaving; the tipping point. 

Roger pulled the sleeve of his jumper over his hand and carefully rubbed the lamp. He rubbed it three times. Three rubs for three wishes, he thought, although he only intended to make one wish and there didn’t seem to be a genie.

He had promised his mother that he wouldn’t join a band; that he would not get swept up in the community a band offered. He was going to break that promise tomorrow when he auditioned for Smile. The name was a good omen, he thought. He felt this was an auspicious moment for him and that his mother would understand.

Roger closed his eyes and made a wish.


End file.
